


Genuine Article

by RhetoricFemme



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Am I world-building here?, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Battle of Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-20 08:26:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12428838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RhetoricFemme/pseuds/RhetoricFemme
Summary: It's an evening for friends and family at The Burrow, but Hermione finds herself in search of some fresh air.





	Genuine Article

**Author's Note:**

> This is only the second time I've properly written anything for Harry Potter. I think I'm in the accidental process of world-building? Either way, I hope you enjoy this oneshot offering a sweet glimpse of Fred and Hermione. I know I had fun writing it.
> 
> Take Care!

Autumn was on at The Burrow. Several years after Death Eaters had burnt the eccentric structure to the ground, the rebuilt home was somewhat a dichotomy in the way it balanced that old, lived-in charm alongside the still fresh smell of new cedar. Steadfast efforts at restoration had proven that no dark force in existence stood a chance against the unabashed resolve of good, old-fashioned, Weasley morale.

Now, close to three years since its reconstruction, familiar faces gathered inside The Burrow as loved ones continued to reestablish some notion of comfort for one another. At least, some semblance of how normal used to be.

Hermione flashed the lot of them a pleasant enough smile, taking advantage of Ron’s moment to regale their company with an enhanced rendition of some Quidditch game or another. She doesn’t escape Harry’s or Ginny’s eyes, however, in her attempt to sneak away. It’s no matter, ultimately, as she knows they’ll let her go just the same.

It’s a dark sentiment that only a few of them will ever understand.

The knowledge of how quickly the devil may catch up with even the best of them. The awkward, unsettling relief that accompanies the safe return to friends and loved ones who can only try and understand a feeling with which so very few will ever be able to commiserate.

It’s better this way, though. The objective is to prevent pain, after all, and so despite herself Hermione keeps most of it to herself. Wouldn’t wish this desolate introspection on just about anybody.

Looking around the room, she takes in the various cadences brought on by this room full of voices and laughter. Bill and Fleur, Arthur, Molly and George. Ron engages the lot of them, his words animated and descriptive gestures coloring the air. He’s even able to draw a smile out of Percy.

Hermione takes no pleasure in the solace she gets from the way Harry and Ginny nod, though she returns the motion as she makes her way toward the front door. She does not question the way they encourage her now, trusting instead that they simply grasp the value of some occasional time apart from the crowd.

And so she steps out, the cursed scar on her forearm scorching against the cold autumn air. She doesn’t mind it so much. Not really. It’s not the scar’s fault Hermione barely sleeps at night. Not the mottled skin’s fault she experiences inescapable guilt for the fact that she’s still alive.

The world is full of scars. Residual effects that come by virtue of getting back up every time some unnamed bleakness tries to tear everything down.

It’s all anyone can do, she imagines, and counts herself fortunate to be here now, watching stars twinkle lazily across a perfect, cloudless sky.

Long grass rustles with the wind surrounding her, raising with it a scratching cacophony of deadening leaves. Still, it isn’t enough for Hermione to miss the snap of a branch underfoot somewhere off to the left. The unmistakable scent of wood smoke and cardamom drifts on the air, so pleasant that Hermione doesn’t even attempt to hide her smile.

“I know you’re there.” She drawls playfully, the words barely audible beneath her breath. “You with your invisibility spells and all.”

Another gust of wind whips by, bringing with it the appearance of another body standing alongside of her. Freckled, alabaster hands in his pockets, broad and steady as ever on his feet.

She doesn’t even need to look.

“Sorry.” Uncharacteristic sweetness tinges his words, though there’s hardly time to analyze it as his voice carries away with the breeze. “Saw you coming and thought I’d try and sneak back up to the house. No such luck with you, though, is there?”

“You don’t have to leave on account of me, Fred.”

He nods, then. One unscarred corner of his mouth quirks upward into a grin while he steals a glance at the woman all of the wizarding media insists on calling the brightest witch of their age. As if they’d any inclination into what such a compliment truly inferred.

“So then, Granger. What’s got you coming out here all alone?”

An amused sound erupts from her throat. Pleasant as it is, Fred hears it more as an audible smirk than as any other variety of laughter.

“I swear.” Hermione shakes her head. “I could marry into this family and I’d still be Granger to everyone here.”

“S’cause you’re our ‘Mione.” He muses back at her. “That isn’t so bad now, is it?”

“No!” Shaking her head, Hermione rubs the gooseflesh from her arms, though not before she can prevent him from better examining the scar across her arm. “No, it’s not a bad thing at all.”

For a moment they share a companionable silence, she with nothing else to say and he content with the earnestness of her answer.

“ ‘Mione?”

“Hm?”

“How come you never glamour the purple beneath your eyes?”

A deep sigh. Morose smile. Hermione shrugs, and Fred pretends not to notice the stress-hollowed grooves of her clavicle.

For as long as he can recall, she has been his personal definition of what a woman ought to be; wont to employ her brain before her emotions, though neither has she ever ignored the latter. Tonight he sees her as both beautiful and sallow. He wonders just how awkward it would be to blurt out his near need to try and take care of her.

“Why bother?” She responds easily, as if she’s thought this over before. “I’m done with school. Not at work. It’d be nothing more than a lie right now to cover myself with a glamour.”

“A lie.”

“Mhm.” Fred drapes his jacket around her shoulders in the same moment that her small arms cross her shivering chest. “There’s no sense in pretending I’m completely alright when I’m not. Why should I play around and waste my time on a façade when I could spend that time making better use of myself? Or, you know, sometimes not making use of myself.”

“I see.”

“Sometimes self-care is just leaving well enough alone.”

She never fails to amaze him. The purity of her honesty goes beyond expectation; the generosity of her spirit shirks the social norms of both the muggle and wizarding worlds.

“You, Ms. Granger, are beyond convention.” Fascination plays across his features, starlight catching in his eyes while he takes a moment to unabashedly look upon her.

It feels like a blissful intrusion when she looks him over in kind; their gazes locked before her eyes wander from the scar that runs the length of his face, over the cupid’s bow of his lips, and finally back to that scar again.

Finally, she raises one perfect brow and deigns to crack a smile. It doesn’t require words for her to see that Fred has been existing on this same, lonely plateau, too.

It’s more than evident as he pivots on one foot to better face the house.

“Hermione? Mind if I sit with you for a while?”

“I’m standing, Fred.”

“Right.” He lowers himself to the cold ground. Wind-blown copper sweeps in the same direction as the long grass, though he makes no effort to push the fringe out of his face. “Would you care to sit with me, then?”

She grants his request, putting aside the young girl whose heart once would have skipped a beat at this chance. The excitement is still there, however covered by scars it may be.

Fred’s arm comes around to envelop her, an invitation acquiesced in the way she leans into the warmth of his chest. Strong fingers press into her shoulder, creating a pattern in the gentle way they knead at the fabric covering her frame. There’s no telling who finds more comfort, here.

It’s no matter.

It isn’t a competition.

Sienna warmth emanates from The Burrow, brightening and securing the autumnal night. Fred shivers against her, then, and Hermione figures it’s more to do with the cruel memory of flames, and less with the chill of the night. He says nothing, only gazes onward while accepting the gentle wrap of her arm across his waist.

Fortunately, the sky is clear tonight. Not a single ill-shaped cloud, and no harrowing remnants of fire or smoke to speak of in the navy sky.

“You’re too good for them, you know.”

“Come again?” She only lifts her head slightly. Just enough to meet the inquisitive flare of his whiskey eyes.

“You mentioned still being called Granger, even if Weasley were to become your last name. And I’m saying even that bunch of superior arses isn’t good enough for you.”

He finishes his statement with a proud, righteous little smile. All Hermione can do is scoff while landing his chest with a playful smack. She doesn’t shy away in the split second it takes Fred to capture her hand, but leans back into his chest with a sigh.

“Frederick Weasley. However does anyone put up with you?”

Sometimes it hurts Fred to laugh. He’s learned to accommodate the scars that pull across the left side of his face, has figured out more convenient ways to hold himself in the event such happiness arises.

And now?

Now, he takes a chance. Fred lays a kiss over the pulled back curls that lay atop the crown of Hermione’s head. Reluctantly at first, she moves to lace their shivering fingers together.

Fred hasn’t smiled this wide in years.


End file.
